The Death Of The Band
by goldnote
Summary: The school board wants to cut instrumental music in the school. Can the band director and the students save their program? Rated T. A OneShot...


_I didn't really want to work on "Hearts Of Glass" or any of my other stories, so I figured I would work on a little one shot I thought of yesterday. This is a one shot, slightly full of angst, and basically my drabbles on what it would be like for a band program to be on the line. The people in this story bear no representation to people I know and is not meant to offend anyone in any way. (I just had the urge to put that in here, just in case...) This is not very "realistic," I guess you could say, because I'm not writing from experience. So, this is just how I would imagine it would go on, only I got to add in the drama._

_My band director was playing taps on the trumpet and the sound, even though it wasn't the best, was still inspirational. I had always had a few ideas spinning in my head about this and the taps set it off! _

_This story is dedicated to my high school band members and directors, past and present! Hopefully it will never come to this!_

* * *

The gymnasium was humid, despite the cold breeze and snow flurries outside. Bleachers lined the walls, long wooden bleachers that could hold hundreds of spectators, and did hold that many when there were sporting events at the high school. Banners lined the wall, hovering above the bleachers, most of them the standards of rival schools and sportsmanship banners. Awards the school's sport's teams had won covered the opposite wall, a proud proclamation of the importance sports held at the senior high. People filed into the gymnasium and took their seats, their feet reflected in the wooden floor. A dull haze of noise had fallen over the gym, voices sometimes rising above others before falling back to the acceptable level of chaos.

Teenagers and adults alike filled the gym, all of them members of the same community and even the same class. Most of them waited expectantly in the stands, glancing at the middle of the gym floor to check if there was any activity. In the middle of the gym floor was a long table, the sort used for banquets or special events. Cushioned chairs, those used for the honorary spectators at basketball games, stood behind the table, their seats embroidered with the school's mascot. In front of this table, several feet away, rested a handful of nearly broken folding chairs, their wooden seats made even worse in appearance because of the cushioned chairs across the table. The meeting was about to begin, the large clock at the end of the gymnasium showing seven o' clock.

The school board members filed into the gym one by one, each taking their respective cushioned chairs. The principal sat in the middle of the table, clearing his throat to address the crowd, the spectators quieting after the first few words were spoken.

"The school board and I are here for the meeting addressing the possible abandonment of the instrumental music program. I am Principal Wikam and I will be managing this meeting. I introduce our superintendent, Mr. Harrason."

The large, gruff-looking man on the principal's left stood for a brief moment and took a stiff bow before sitting down. Several of the students hissed and grimaced. They knew the superintendent was behind the push to get rid of the instrumental music program at the high school and he would be one of their biggest obstacles to overcome.

"The main reason behind our decision to hold this meeting as a public event is because of the numerous inquires of why the school board is considering cutting the music program. To begin, we will state that the instrumental music program has been suffering for several years under the direction of numerous, ill qualified band directors and incompetent student leaders. The lack of interest in the program is concerning and the program is not turning out the usual standard of excellence our school board has decided was required for all activities. We now invite speakers from the audience to come plead their case for or against cutting the program."

There was not a sound from the bleachers, the broken chairs naked and stiff on the gym floor. Anyone going down to confront the school board would be torn apart.

"Is there no one to speak for the band?" asked the superintendent with a slight touch of sarcasm in his rocky voice. "Where are the leaders?"

"I'll speak," said a voice from a section of the bleachers, the crowd turning to face her. Nervously, the girl made her way down to the floor and sat uncomfortably in one of the chairs in front of the table.

"State your name, grade, and any title for the board's record," the secretary said dully, picking up a yellow legal pad and a pen.

"Stacy," the girl said quietly, "I'm a freshman. What do you mean by a title?"

"Never mind," the principal said, the girl's look only growing more confused. "If you had one, you would know."

There was a snort from the audience and Stacy looked up to see the entire football team arrive, making as little noise as possible. Shifting in her chair, Stacy began to speak.

"I've only been in the high school band for a few months now, but I really like it so far. Yeah, we need some work. We need a new band room. We need-"

"We are not discussing the issue of what we are buying for the band. We are discussing the matter of cutting the program."

The superintendent received a glare from both Stacy's parents and her mother seemed to be on the edge of her seat as her daughter cleared her throat.

"I'm saying that we shouldn't cut the program because there are a lot of people who really want to continue with their music who couldn't if the school didn't have a band."

Stacy let out a large sigh and nodded when the principal asked her if she was finished. The pressure was too much for the young girl and she jumped out of her broken chair and fled to the bleachers to sit with her parents once more. As soon as she sat down, a large young man stood up and walked across the gym floor, his friends from the football team heckling him.

"State your name, grade, and any title," repeated the secretary, drawing a line under Stacy's name.

"Wayne," said the boy, "a junior, and I'm just the tuba player."

"What do you have to say, Wayne?"

"I say that we don't cut the program just yet. We give it a little time to recover from the band director switch and give the kids a chance to catch up to the expectations. Our leadership isn't bad, but they can't work with a group so mixed up."

"Define 'mixed up' for the board, please," the principal asked, Wayne answering.

"We've just had a lot of trouble the past few years. It'll get better, but if taking the money away from the band is going to do anything to help the school, so be it. Where would the money go to if the band program was cut?"

"To us!" shouted a few of the football players, laughing and stomping their feet. The principal glanced at them and they quieted down, their snickers heard across the gym.

"For what?" Wayne said to the captain, a short boy with blond hair.

"We need new jerseys," he answered, shrugging his shoulders.

"You just got new jerseys!" shouted a girl from the bleachers. "We need our music!"

"We want newer ones!" was the answer, several of the boys rolling their eyes at the slightly overweight girl who had just shouted. She glared and her friend pulled on her arm to keep her steady.

"Football team, would you like to send a representative down here to plead your case?"

"No, I think we made our statement," the captain said. "I'm just saying that the money the band eats up could be used to equip the football field with some new lights and stands. Enough said."

Wayne, who was a member of the football team, also, nodded his agreement before catching himself. The board asked him if he would like to say anything else and Wayne returned to the bleachers, sitting with the football team this time. Several band members shook their heads and promised they wouldn't forget the treachery Wayne had just committed.

"Anyone else?" the principal said, checking watch. It was a very rude gesture, considering they were only fifteen minutes into the meeting. Several band volunteers came down, but only said one or two things to the board before resuming their seats. Some community members spoke against the band as well as for it, torn between giving the band another chance or using the money for something else, namely sports.

"I have something to say," spoke a girl, jumping easily down the bleacher stands and taking seat in front of the board. Without waiting for the secretary to speak, she announced, "My name is Kelsey, I'm a senior, and I'm the majorette of the marching band here at the high school. I'm also the Manager and Concert Master."

"If you're a senior," the superintendent asked, "Why are you here? You'll graduate and move on. Does the board rule this to be fair on behalf of the decision?"

Several of them shook their heads. Kelsey lifted her jaw and kept speaking.

"I do not agree with cutting this program because we've worked so hard to keep it strong these past few years. What has happened to us has not happened because of us. Our band director 'curse,' as we call it, has taken place because they have moved onto other careers and schools. They simply started here. We didn't do anything to drive them away."

There were several exchanged looks. Kelsey wasn't entirely telling the truth; the band had driven away one particular director, but that was forgotten history. Or would be if the school cut the program.

"I have a question," Kelsey asked hesitantly, "Would the cut to the instrumental music program include cutting the marching band and drumline?"

"It would, yes," the principal said, nodding.

"Why?"

"We could sell the uniforms, instruments, and equipment, making a bit of money to benefit the school. Without a foundation program, such activities would not exist. Surely, as a drum major, you would know that."

The superintendent and Kelsey locked eyes and, for a moment, the whole gym was silent.

"Before I take my seat again, I want to say one thing," Kelsey said, standing up and placing a hand on the board's table. "You don't know how hard we have worked to keep the program running and how much pain we've been through. To cut the program would be to cut the throats of those who work for and love this program!"

With those words, spoken as if Julius Caesar himself had taken the floor, Kelsey marched to the bleachers, dark hair swinging a cold gleam in her eye. There was a sparkle of a whistle around her neck and she bit her lip, waiting for the board to absorb her small speech and ask for more speakers.

"We have time tonight for two more speakers only," the principal announced, checking his watch once more. "Would the president of the band step forward?"

There was a rumble among the crowd as no one stepped forward. The band president had not arrived to speak on the band's behalf.

"Would the vice president come forward?"

Once again, the officer was not there to represent the band.

"Would someone who holds a position please speak?"

Kelsey stood up after several seconds of muttering.

"I believe I am the only one here, sir."

"We've already heard from you," was the snappy reply, causing Kelsey to grind her teeth in anger.

"Would the band director please step forward as our last speaker of the night?"

A man stood and made his way to the board, clearing his throat nervously. In one hand, he held a trumpet. The trumpet was old, battered, covered in red-rot, but had obvious sentimental meaning. The principal raised an eyebrow as the director stated his name and title.

"I'm here as a plea for my job. I work here. If you cut the program, you cut me. You wouldn't do that, would you?"

He got no response from board and continued on nervously.

"These kids have worked hard. Yes, the program isn't where I want it to be, but any program would suffer if there was a constant switch of teachers or coaches. What would the football team do if they lost a coach every year? Would they win every game? No. They would struggle. But their heart would be in it. And they would try their hardest. Some would lose hope, but some would carry on and try for the best. You have to give us one more chance."

"Please explain the meaning of the trumpet?" asked the superintendent, "There must be a reason for you bringing it."

"I learned how to play music on this instrument," the band director replied, looking down at it and his voice growing soft. "You don't know how to play, do you? You've never touched an instrument in your life, right? Don't ask me to give this up. Don't ask the kids to give this up. There has to be other ways to fix this budget problem without cutting the program. We can fund raise, get donations! We can continue if you let us."

"Is that all?" asked the principal coldly, brushing off every heart felt syllable. The director nodded and walked off the gym floor, leaving the broken folding chairs standing alone once more. Kelsey went and stood next to him as the band director arrived at his seat in the bleachers and cleared his throat for the last time.

"We will now vote on the future of the instrumental music program," the principal announced. "All those in favor of cutting the program in interest of saving money and class space, raise your hands."

All twelve members raised their hand, just one or two hesitant on voting for the cut.

"All those who appose, raise their hand."

The members of the band who had worked the hardest the past years to keep their program running raised their hands.

"The audience is not allowed a vote," the principal said. "The decision passes. The instrumental music program is now obsolete in this school. Arrangements will be made on a later date on what to do with school owned instruments and uniforms. Meeting adjourned."

* * *

As the football players, including Wayne, left together, they didn't heckle the band. As the students left, they were silent. As the parents left, there were slight mumbles on the speakers or lack thereof. There was a definite stillness to the gym as people left. As they left, even those who had been in favor of getting rid of the program understood the pain their fellow students felt who had been in band. If they looked back, and most of them didn't because it was too sad of a sight to see, the crowd saw Kelsey, standing quietly next to her director, whistle sparkling on her neck, as the director played taps on his trumpet.

The sound was haunting.

The sound was beautiful.

It was the respect being paid to the death of the band.

_

* * *

Pretty dramatic, huh? Not my best writing, I think, by far, but I wrote this mainly as a writing exercise. If I wanted to, I bet I could go back and fix a lot of it, but I like it the way it is at the moment (mostly because I am too depressed now to go back and fix it)!_

_Thank you very much for reading this little, sad one shot and please leave me a review or two! Happy Reading!_


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